Improbable, Impossible, Implausible
by FifteenFathomsCounting
Summary: Improbable. Impossible. Implausible. Apparently she has a lot in common with Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Improbable, Impossible, Implausible**

_Remember the time when we stole the whole day?_  
><em>And nobody knows it, we took it away,<em>  
><em>And it will be forever mine,<em>  
><em>And it will be forever yours<em>  
><em>Now we own the night, and it can't be undone,<em>  
><em>We'll never forget how it feels to be young,<em>  
><em>Cause it will be forever mine,<em>  
><em>And it will be forever yours<em>

Alex Day – Forever Yours

She ran.

She had no choice. Naturally.

She ran faster and further until the alleyways all blended into one and she was left sprinting around the backstreets of London City Centre. The Toad was not far behind her, she could tell that much without even looking. If she wasn't so level headed, she could've sworn that was his breath against her neck; that the abandoned bin bag she stumbled over in the dark was actually his hand reaching out to snatch at her ankle, sending her tumbling to the ground and into his grasp. Though she was obviously not unnerved by the possibility, she put on an extra burst of speed, dashing through the maze of back gardens and streets.

She knew where she was going. She just had to lose him.

To any passers-by, she just looked like a regular young woman running for something, a bus maybe, but that was only because they were too ignorant to think anything else of it. To anyone else, anyone observant enough to notice the way she refused to slow down to catch her breath and the way she kept looking over her shoulder as she sprinted down the street, she was being followed.

She took a shortcut through Portman Square, knowing that she could save time by going through the trees, rather than running around the park. Without bothering to wait for the traffic to slow, she sprinted across the road, ignoring the driver of the car who was now feverishly honking at his car horn in a futile attempt to knock some sense into her. She cringed, knowing that if he didn't already know which route she had taken, he would by now. The Toad would have heard that car horn from as far away as Seymour Street. She pressed on, knowing that every second would count until she could get away.

They were both sat in the window seat of Il Baretto, John having once again forced Sherlock to go out and eat. Partly because the oven was out of order due to one of Sherlock's ongoing experiments, and partly because they had just tied up a rather difficult case and he was too exhausted to even attempt to cook, let alone shove the food down Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock was sat quietly examining any people who caught his eye and was absentmindedly calling out specific details about their lives – that woman clearly preferred one of her children over the other, that man in the corner was a closet homosexual, and that waitress there was secretly self harming herself. It was John who first noticed her. Though Sherlock had always sat in the window seat of a restaurant in order to keep tabs on things happening outside, usually criminals, it was John who first noticed something odd. Deep down he did feel like he had achieved something; he'd noticed something before the great Sherlock Holmes. As he shovelled crab linguine into his mouth, he leaned over the table and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, gesturing through the window with his thumb.

"I see nothing of interest..."

"Sherlock, _look._"

The damp patch of sweat on the back of her blouse, the way her hand occasionally clamped over her side as she tried to stifle the cramp of stitch and the way she was breathing heavily suggested that she was overexerting herself. But there was something else, something he was missing. She showed no signs of slowing, and her eyes were constantly jumping from side to side as if she was expecting someone to sneak up on her. With a quick glance down a nearby alleyway, she slipped into it quietly and she was away again, sprinting for her life.

Without so much as a word to John he jumped up from his seat, and sped out of the restaurant, leaving him to pay the bill. He could always pay him back later. John shot his roommate a baffled look and got up to follow him, throwing some notes onto the table in his hurry. Sherlock had already disappeared down the alley by the time he caught up with him. The pursuit was on. Suddenly they came slipping to a halt on a muddy patch. The young woman was waiting in front of them, bent over double and panting heavily. At the far end of the alley, a dark shape waited.

"Sherlock Holmes I assume?" She muttered quietly.

"How-" John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No time to explain."

There was a moment's silence, before the dark shape started to move slowly towards them.

"_Shit!_" She cursed, hopping up on to a wheely bin and pulling herself onto a low roofed building. "Follow me. _Quickly._" The two men below her deliberated for a second before gunshots rang out behind them. Sherlock shook himself back into consciousness and leapt for the roof. She clutched his forearm and pulled him up beside her, them both reaching down to heave John to safety. There was silence once more.

"_Hurry._"

And then she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Improbable, Impossible, Implausible**

_My Fender Strat sits all alone  
>Collecting dust in the corner<br>I haven't called any of my friends  
>I've been MIA since last December<br>My Blackberry's filled up with E-mail  
>My phone calls goes straight through to voicemail<br>_

Simple Plan Featuring Rivers Cuomo – Can't Keep My Hands Off You

They had run quite far, climbing from various rooftops and jumping gaps until they had reached an abandoned industrial estate. At its heart sat an empty building, an old factory or a warehouse maybe, though if he was brutally honest John didn't particularly care what form of a building it was. An old skip lay abandoned by the gaping hole of what was once considered to be a window, though all the panes of glass had been smashed by considerate youths many years previously. After glancing about the abandoned car park, she hopped up onto the rim of the skip before scrambling through into the warehouse, the two men following immediately, breathing heavily after their run.

Once inside, she flopped to the floor gratefully, stretching out flat on her back and tried in vain to regulate her heavy breathing. John stood up, a face like thunder.

"Would either of you mind explaining what the bloody hell is going on here?" he exclaimed, frustrated. Sherlock got to his feet and began to wander aimlessly along the perimeter of the building, examining bits and pieces he found on the way.

"Anyone?" John continued, still slightly out of breath, before slumping to the floor in defeat.

"Needles and empty wraps on the floor," Sherlock called out from somewhere in the shadows. "Couple of old sofas here too. Looks like a-"

"It's an old crack den." She said, the tone of her voice implying that it was not a particularly hard deduction to make. Sherlock's head popped up from behind a steel pillar.

"What makes you think its not in use anymore?" He asked, sounding neither impressed nor shocked at her speculation.

"Did you not see the thickness of the dust on the windowsill? No one has been in here for a long time. At least three months, I'd say."

"Close, but not quite right." Sherlock muttered, before directing a comment at John, "Well, this certainly isn't dull!" After a seconds pause, he continued, "Then again, it's not the most exciting either… but, beggars can't be choosers!" He sighed, sounding almost bored already.

Outside, there came a screech of tyres as a car pulled up. She jumped to her feet quickly, cursing again. "_Shit! _I didn't think he'd find us here so quickly!" She ran to the window, peering out to get a glimpse of the car, cursing the familiar black jaguar.

John followed her "Just who is he? And more to the point, have you put us in danger?" he demanded.

Sherlock hurried over, "John, help me with this." He said, gesturing towards a moth eaten old sofa.

John looked at him confused, "Why? Sherlock, we're about to be killed, why do you want to be messing about with a couch?"

"John! Quickly! I'd love to stop and chat, but, unlike you, I don't have the time to be killed!" Sherlock snapped in reply. John sighed, in resignation and helped his friend lift the piece of heavy furniture and block up the window with it.

"I don't have my gun." John stated, looking anxious "What if he starts shooting at us again?"

Sherlock sighed, frustrated with his flatmate, "Yes,_ I know John._ It is obvious, you know, we're not all blissfully unaware like you."

John looked about ready to make a snide reply directed at Sherlock before she interrupted, clapping her hands and speaking to them cheerily "Now then children, behave…" she warned them in a patronizing tone, which seemed to subdue them for a moment as she rifled through the cushions of the sofa. "Aha!" she cried "You beauty!" kissing the barrel of the revolver, "Right where I left you…" she remarked smugly, before turning to face the aghast ex-soldier and the mildly surprised detective.

"Interesting…" Sherlock remarked, "I didn't expect you to have a Smith and Wesson,"

"Oh, but you knew I had a gun?" she replied calmly, before smoothing down the front of her leather bomber jacket, "I suppose you could see the imprint it left in my pocket? Though, I should say, it's not actually mine, I found it here a couple of days ago…" Sherlock nodded once, uninterested

"He'll be here in a moment," She said, gesturing towards the door.

"Yeah, who exactly is _he_?" John asked, shooting a look at Sherlock, one that clearly said – _go on, ask her!_

Cocking the hammer of her revolver, she aimed it at the door, waiting for it to open. Speaking through gritted teeth, she spoke quickly. "I like to call him The Toad-" as John opened his mouth to ask a question, she cut him off "-you'll see why in a moment. Basically, I have something that he has been sent to obtain, which means I've been running about the country trying to get away from him."

"What sort of something?" John asked sceptically, shooting a glance towards to Sherlock, wondering if he had deduced the answer.

"A top secret sort of something." In front of them, a door banged loudly and echoing footsteps approached.

"There's a flight of stairs up there," she pointed, "Leads to the overseer's office – go out the fire exit. I'll try giving you a few moments head start but-" She turned to face them, looking at them urgently as a wordless shout echoed from near the locked door. A scraping sound emerged from the keyhole as The Toad began picking the lock. "_Don't stop running. _He's lethal." She reminded them.

As they turned away, she spoke again "And Mr Holmes. If something happens, your brother will need to know..."

Sherlock nodded and was gone in a second, coat tails flapping as he ran up the stairs two at a time. She retreated, slowly reaching the foot of the stairs, blindly pushing John behind her as the door burst open. As the short squat man with flabby, pallid skin advanced over the threshold, shots rang out rapidly. She returned fire until the barrel was empty and followed the two men out of the warehouse at a sprint. The Toad did not follow them immediately, though she could say whether she had managed to hit him or not.

"Even if he's dead," she muttered through laboured breathing "There'll be more." She looked up at the two men, who were both bent double trying to catch their breath, like her. Grinning slightly with the exhilaration "I don't suppose you can recommend a good B&B? Somewhere safe'll do-"

Already the two men were stalking away, hailing a nearby cab.

"The address is 221B Baker Street."

* * *

><p>After they had returned to Baker Street, John had settled down with a cup of tea and that morning's newspaper, which he had still not gotten around to reading. Sherlock was stood sullenly in the alcove of the window, absentmindedly plucking at the strings of his violin and creating irritating grating notes which jarred John's jaw as they reached a particularly high crescendo.<p>

Finally, he slammed his paper down "Christ Sherlock! Can you stop that?"

"It helps me think."

"Even so, can you please just _play _something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but obliged, picking up his bow, and repositioning his violin and playing a soft melody.

Ten minutes passed, before John spoke again "So, why is she coming here again?"

Sherlock sighed and put his violin down carefully. "She was interesting," he shrugged, "It's likely we'll get a case out of her-"

"You mean because she ran across half of London to get away from an assassin who wanted to steal something from her?"

"No." Sherlock picked up John's laptop, ignoring the raised eyebrows of his friend. After five minutes silence, John nudged his flatmates leg with his stretched out foot to get his attention. The expression on Sherlock's face clearly said – _never do that again._ But it had worked; Sherlock shoved the laptop aside and placed his steepled fingers against his nose.

"Because I want to know why such a young woman has left her family recently, travelled to London and is in possession of a top secret file – especially when this woman is clearly not an employee of the government – the callused and unmanicured fingers show that she is accustomed to working with her hands."

John nodded and added "And the gun."

Sherlock's eyes shot open for a moment. "Of course. She's a well off middle class woman, where would she ever have held a gun before? She's not an ex soldier..."

He trailed off again, and sat in silence, thinking again. John sighed and picked up his newspaper again, not expecting him to stir again that evening.

* * *

><p>At half past 9, the doorbell downstairs rang shrilly. John could hear Mrs Hudson bustling down the narrow hallway as fast as her hip would allow her, calling out<p>

"I won't be a minute dear!"

Sherlock barely reacted when John got up and made his way downstairs to greet her himself. She was still hovering anxiously in the doorway, with a couple of suitcases and a holdall. Her hood was pulled firmly up over her head to protect her from the elements, and John suspected it would also deter anyone who was following her.

"Uh, Mr Holmes said that this was a B&B?" She said, her eyes darting about confusedly, "I'm sorry, I've come to the wrong address – I'll be off then…" Uttering another apology, she began turning around picking up her bags ready to leave.

"Oh, but this must be the right place! Sherlock _lives _here!" Mrs Hudson said warmly, noticing John at the same time "Oh! John, this young lady, seems to be in a bit of a pickle – Sherlock's doing I'll imagine?"

"Yeah, something like that." John muttered, stepping forward to help her lift her bags "Come on, I'll show you upstairs and Sherlock can explain." She smiled gently, suddenly shy now that they were out of danger, and followed him upstairs.

* * *

><p>"I'm Tegan by the way, Tegan Watkins," She said, offering her hand to Sherlock. He ignored it and continued scrutinising her. Normally in a case like this, she would have become increasingly nervous, but her earlier confidence was creeping back, so she stared him down. "Though most people just call me Tee." She said, thanking John quietly as he brought her a cup of tea.<p>

"So he's like this a lot then?" She asked, nodding her head towards Sherlock who had thrown himself sideways so he was lying down on the sofa.

"Oh, I'd say most of the day if he's got a case," John shrugged nonchalantly, before sitting down on a second armchair.

"What about if he doesn't have a case?"

"Well," John said, trying to find the right words to describe him before she wandered over to the far end of the room and traced the bullet holes in the wall with her finger.

"He does stuff like that, doesn't he?" She said with a slight laugh.

John nodded ruefully, "It doesn't put you off does it?"

She shrugged "Nah, not really, and I mean anyway, even if it did it's not like me to complain, especially when I'm this desperate."

Sherlock looked back and forth between them, "Why are you desperate?"

"MR Holmes, I've heard about you, _supposedly_ you're the world's only consulting detective – you tell me!"

He rolled his eyes and picked up his violin again, plucking at random notes to show his irritation, he reeled off all the facts he had deduced about her.

"You've recently left your perfectly dull family, so you have nowhere to stay. You're not from London; otherwise you would have friends you'd be staying with right now. You are in possession of a top secret file – you must have it on you at all times so that they don't steal it from your current hotel room and a folder of documents is too big to carry with you, so it must be small – a memory stick is likely. You don't work for the government, or you would be working on the file in the safety of an office, so you must be a freelance worker who has been employed to work on it. You don't have a manicure like most boringly mundane middle class women do, and you have calluses on your fingertips. More interesting is the lack of any jewellery on your hands or wrists, which suggests that you work with your hands. My first guess would be that you work as an electrician because of the lack of jewellery, health and safety would prevent that of course, but then that's a ridiculous theory, when we come back to fact that you are a middle class young woman, not to mention the fact that you have a top secret government file on your person, so a computer programmer maybe."

There was a moment's silence as she looked to John for confirmation, "Yeah," he replied in answer to her questioning glance "He does that all the time too."

Then she laughed. She laughed until she was clutching at her stomach and gasping for air and she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.

The two men before her looked at each other, disbelieving looks cast upon their faces. After a while, John's mouth twitched upwards as he tried to contain a smile, though a sharp look from Sherlock soon quenched any idea of it turning into a full bodied laugh much like the one being uttered from the blonde haired woman in front of them.

"I knew you were good," she giggled, "But not that good!"

"So I was right?"

"Almost," she smiled, "I don't wear jewellery purely because I don't like it, and the calluses are because I play a musical instrument."

"Ahh…"

"I'm Tee… the best computer programmer in the country."

"You can have Sherlock's bed. He barely uses it anyway." John said, pointing the way.

"Thanks."


	3. Chapter 3

**Improbable, Impossible, Implausible**

_I wanna scream I love you,_

_ From the top of my lungs._

_But I'm afraid that someone else'll hear me._

_You can only blame your problems,_

_ On the world for so long,_

_Before it all becomes the same old song._

The (Shipped) Gold Standard – Fall Out Boy

Stumbling into the kitchen, bleary eyed, the next morning, Tee yawned monstrously and approached the fridge in a half-cataleptic state. Ignoring the sandwich bag of freshly amputated toes tucked conspicuously inside the door, she shoved them aside and reached for the milk, hoping that they had some cereal tucked away at the back of one of the cupboards. John looked like he had the sense to buy Cornflakes regularly – she rather suspected that Sherlock didn't go in for menial household tasks. Even so, Mrs Hudson downstairs, she probably did the shopping for them – she could imagine her doing that for them, the little old woman seemed very motherly.

"Morning," yawned John as he shuffled in after her, squeezing between her and a huge wooden table stacked with scientific equipment: microscopes and test tubes and a variety of scalpels sat amid a scattered pile of notes and test results. "Sleep well?" he added, filling the kettle up with water from the tap and sticking it on to boil.

"Not really, had some work to finish." She smiled thinly and looked out of the window casually, hoping she wouldn't find a sniper setting up in the house opposite. John nodded, then pointed to a mug with his spoon.

"Tea?"

"Yes? Oh right, sorry, no, coffee please."

John chuckled. "Bet that got tiring quick."

Tee smiled, reminiscing. "Yeah it did. I never really asked for a nickname either, it just happened. Which is where all the best ones come from I suppose, but still it could have lead to some horrible bullying as a kid. Thankfully it didn't, I was just ignored instead. Tragic, when you think about it really. Still, Thank God the chavs at Secondary never cottoned on to the fact that Grandpa Jack called me Teabag."

"Worst I ever got was 'What's on TV Watson?'" John confided, "Kids at my school weren't the brightest really."

"Yeah, but I suppose you were better off for it – a nickname like that could hardly get you down, you'd just spend all your time walking around laughing at the idiots who thought it'd be a good idea to tease you!"

"You'd have thought that, but no, they just thought I was a bit mental 'cause I just laughed at them. Either that or they thought I was a bit special."

Tee cackled with laughter, accepting her cup of coffee with a gracious smile. "Oh dear," she said, wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye with a chuckle.

A door slammed as Sherlock flounced into the living room and threw himself onto the sofa, already fully dressed. "Yes alright, once you've finished with your lovely little chat, we have work to do." He commented snidely, reaching over and snatching John's laptop from the floor, long spidery fingers dancing across the keys as he frowns to himself. He glances up, and noting they have not moved, sighs petulantly. "Hurry John, we have a case!"

"Okay, okay, we're coming! Keep your knickers on!" countered John, hurrying across the lino barefoot, balancing a stack of toast on his tea mug.

* * *

><p>A dark coloured car pulled up outside and sat a short distance away from 221B, watching as Sherlock paced up and down past the window. He was talking animatedly, hands flying and hair bouncing before he strode away from the window and suddenly out of view. A moment later he reappeared, carrying his violin in one hand. Standing with his back to the window, it was hard to see what his expression was like, but Mycroft knew he was positively ecstatic with the new case.<p>

Sherlock waltzed off, violin in hand, and another person approached the window to stare out into the hustle and bustle of the busy street down below them. Good. She had made her way there. She would be safe for now. God only knows how, but right now, 221B Baker Street could possibly be the safest place in the world for her.

Turning to his assistant, Anthea, he murmured carefully "Get some surveillance on her, arm them if necessary. She is to be protected at all costs.

No one could find her, or all would be lost.

* * *

><p>A newspaper lay forgotten on the arm of John's chair. He shook it out with one hand and began to read idly, occasionally feeding back on Sherlock's long-winded rant about something or nothing; he wasn't really listening so he couldn't really say what it was about. Possibly about the reliability of public transport, he kept going on about cars a bit.<p>

Then the paper was rudely snatched from his hands by Sherlock, who then began to read the front page story out loud.

* * *

><p>TOP DRESSAGE HORSE STOLEN<p>

Silver Blaze, top contender for the London 2012 Olympics has mysteriously disappeared and is believed to have been stolen, reporters heard today. The 10-year-old Dutch Warmblood, known affectionately to his friends as Silver, was taken from his home in King's Pyland early this morning. An arrest has been made, though no names have yet been released to the press, for fear of repercussions from the general public. The horse's owner, one Col. George Ross, owner of Ross Enterprises and father of the Silver Blaze's rider, owns 5 other competitive horses, none of which were targeted alongside Silver Blaze.

Besides Silver Blaze's stupendous wins at the British Dressage Championships and at Hickstead earlier this year, Silver Blaze is well-loved by the general public for his easy-going personality and love for small children. Silver Blaze has outstanding bloodlines and is out of a son of the great stallion Voltaire; it has been speculated that he was stolen for the purpose of money – a ransom demand is expected shortly.

The body of Silver Blaze's trainer, a Mr John Straker, was discovered on Dartmoor the next morning, with severe head wounds and a deep laceration to the thigh. No arrests have yet been made with regards to his murder, though it is believed that the police have substantial evidence to be working with.

It is understood that Silver Blaze was given to Col. Ross's young daughter, Tabatha 9 years ago; she was expected to compete with him at the London 2012 Olympics, but was not available for comment. It has been announced that Tabatha embarked on a round the world trip three months ago and is not expected to return for some time. It is not known whether Miss Ross has been made aware of the theft as of yet.

Understandably, Silver Blaze is worth a lot of money, so if you have any information, please call the Crimestoppers hotline on 0800 555 111 .


End file.
